Wednesday May 13, 2015 at Dark Horse
Heather Kirn Lanier
When she makes the bed she whispers, “corner’s tucked, sheets flat, duvet fluffy.” She hears Bill leave for work and, as the door locks she quietly calls, “Goodbye!” Gwen waits until eleven, once the dog walker has come and she’s had second cup of coffee to get out the watercolour paints. “A small jar of water on the left, paints on the right…” A whisper, like a feather on her neck. A joint hangs from her lips, but she never lights it. She breathes in quickly, tasting the sweet perfume. Bill has a medical license for his Glaucoma. He leaves joints already rolled in a small ziplock bag in the spice cabinet. She takes them in her mouth, each one, when she paints. “Shhh, little angel,” and a flick of red.